


Memoir of a stranger

by theliljacobine



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Betaed, Canonical Character Death, M/M, One-Sided Relationship, Reincarnation, but really what do you expect?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-13 01:53:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1208440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theliljacobine/pseuds/theliljacobine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All became silent as words came out of his mouth, a controlled cascade that was eloquent as it was provoking, and they lit a fire in the minds of young students that followed him into his fruitless revolution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memoir of a stranger

I could, as every writer in love ever does, give you a perfect description of him.  After all these years, not a single memory tainted by time. The details have been engraved in my mind, and in my darkest moment, I admit ~~,~~ \- not without shame -, that he has been my anchor, keeping me at peace with the world and myself, even if it´s just a ghost of what he used to be. The thing about remembering a past life is that it´s not an easy task. The memories are more like dreams, and the longer you live, the more you forget.  Even if I wrote everything down, I fear the day every single memory of him will fade away just as the other faces have already been forgotten, and I will have nothing to mourn; which is sometimes the only thing that keeps me alive. What I do, it’s not living- it’s existing. Day by day, weeks that turn into months so slowly that time might as well not exist for me at all. This is why I´m writing thisright now: it’s a reminder, a testimony of the existence of my past.

Somehow I know I will never do justice to reality, but it´s all I can do for now. If it was anyone else, I would start by giving a detailed description of how they looked like. But I think that, just explaining his appearance would be an insult to everything he was.  Never mind the shade of his complexion, the color of his eyes or his hair, the size of his body or the marks on his skin. He always fought against the idea of men being simply their bodies, claiming they were only a vehicle for one to exist, and that they were in no way a reflection of who one ought to be, and he was the greatest example of this. His body seemed absolutely infinitesimal compared to his spirit, and sometimes I feared his chest would burst right open and his soul would escape, for it was too big and too strong to be contained. Indeed, his body was his vehicle as it was his cage, for all his hopes and dreams could not be done by a single man, no matter how hard he tried.

 No, I will not disgrace his memory by describing the exact shade of his eyes, but I´ll narrate the way they shone as supernovas, an explosion of light and energy so grand and infinite that men and women alike lost their breath trying to comprehend such sight; oh but they could also be black holes too- for he was a man of strong spirits in both good and bad ways. His rage would bring the darkest of silences, and his eyes would suck the light of every living corner around his, until he consumed everyone and everything. He was too intense, and as any astronomer can tell you, the stars that shine the brightest are also the ones that burn the fastest.

If he could hear me now, my words would not be welcome. Not simply because he never knew of or returned my affections, but also because poetry, as any sort of art, were not things he enjoyed. In fact, his pragmatism didn´t allow it- he thought that anything that didn´t contribute to his cause was a waste of time.  Even his few indulgences, a glass of wine now and then, a book that he read for pleasure, an early night of sleep, were all for keeping him strong and ready for his battle.

His cause, his only lover, the sole reason he claimed he existed for- the revolution.  He was a few decades too late for a belief that was alive in the hearts of the people, yet dead on the streets. But he was as bright as he was optimist, and he believed, not only on the strength of men, but in the strength of ideals- _liberté, égalité, fraternité._  All of the students grew up on these beliefs, and on the stories of the French revolution, but no one cherished them more than him. They were the Holy Word to him, more powerful in his mind than any deity or religion.

They called him the leader in red, for his preference of the color, but also the way his passion drowned everything else.   All became silent as words came out of his mouth, a controlled cascade that was eloquent as it was provoking, and they lit a fire in the minds of young students that followed him into his fruitless revolution.  I would be an hypocrite to mock them by calling them fools, seeing as I was one of them once too, not as young and certainly not optimist, but willing and ready to fight, no; to _die_ for this. The difference was that I knew my foolishness did not come from of my ideals, but from believing in him, and it is a decision I will never come to regret.

And in the strangest and most fucked up of ways, in that life, the only moment that I was truly happy, was at the end. When hope was a thing of the past and he was surrounded by his enemies, his brothers maybe in another life, and their guns were pointing at him, I knew that everything would have not made sense once the trigger was pulled. The light that entered through the window gave an ethereal glow to his image, reality finally catching up with the visions in my mind.

But something was wrong- no, everything was wrong. He was not bathed in the glory of winning his revolution; he was the last corner of light in a room full of death, flesh and blood everywhere, the screams already gone after a long fight. His eyes were dull, not giving any emotions away, and I knew I couldn´t witness that. I rose from my place, and my voice had, for once in my life, sobriety and presence.  It is strange, but for some reason I cannot remember the words. They must have been the right ones, for a miracle happened after them- he smiled. There are no words to describe what it was, or maybe there are, but none of them are adequate to describe it, the relief and hope that shone through that small gesture. I crossed the bar until I stood right beside him, and my final request was

“Do you permit it?”

Those were the last words I uttered. They could not have been more perfect.

And right before the bullets went through our bodies and ripped us apart from our insides, two hands connected, a simple gesture of love and surrender made everything worth it. What it´s more, during my final breath, I realized I had never felt more worthy.

**Author's Note:**

> so, first fic I ever publish. So naturally I'm very nervous. Hope it's not a total disaster and if you liked it, please leave [comments,kudos, whatever], or even if you didn't like it, thanks for reading! This was beta'd by the fabulous killer_quinn.


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